


wear me down

by Macremae



Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hate Makeouts, Hate Sex, M/M, model un au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: obligatory model un au that no one asked for





	

**Author's Note:**

> come join the wooden overcoats group chat it's fucking wild

“I think our first act,” says Rudyard, “should have been declaring war on Spain.”

Next to him, Georgie finishes sliding her papers into the front pocket of her binder, and gives him an unimpressed look. “Did you miss the part where they have a giant-ass armada?”

Rudyard shrugs her words off. “So does England.” 

“Yeah, but everyone hates us. Remember when Ireland nearly put her gavel through your teeth?”

Antigone appears from the bathroom of their cramped hotel room in a fluster of insubordinate bobby pins. “If I remember correctly, you did the same thing to Uganda.”

“His fault for being an ass,” Georgie answers, and moves to help pin Antigone’s unruly hair into place. She shoots her a grateful look, but still says, “I think it's sort of a tradition to be proud of your representative country.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between that and saying that your country’s ‘burn the gays’ law is a good idea.”

“Georgie,” Rudyard says dryly, “you punched him in the face. We got disqualified.”

“Firstly, yeah, I know, Rudyard, I was there. Secondly, no, we got disqualified because you kept trying to declare war on Spain, when, as Antigone and I have told you about a million times, you’re not allowed to do that.”

Rudyard replies primly, “Those were extenuating circumstances.”

Georgie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because when I hear ‘extenuating circumstances’, I think of Eric being diplomatic, and you trying to nuke Madrid. Hell, do we even have nukes?”

“Even if we don’t, I’d get some.”

“Rudyard,” Antigone says icily, holding up her hair so Georgie can pin it in place, “no one is going to give you bloody nuclear weapons to blow up Spain, just because you don’t like it’s delegate. It doesn’t work like that. If you had just gotten over that stupid feud you have with Chapman, we could have won, so you have no one to blame but your own damn self.”

Rudyard glares at her with the fury of a thousand suns, and huffily settles onto the bed with his book. Georgie takes note of this, and says, “You’d better hurry up and get ready if you don’t wanna miss the afterparty.”

“I’m not going,” he grumbles. 

Antigone rolls her eyes. “Just because we lost, doesn’t mean you can stay up here and sulk all night.”

“Antigone, I am not going to some stupid party just to watch a bunch of teenagers get drunk and sing off-key. I am perfectly fine right here, and I’m going to be for the rest of the night. This is a convention to help the great minds of the next generation with the weight of future responsibilities, not an excuse to for horny intellectuals get hammered.”

With a loud sigh, she rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Christ _above_ , Rudyard, this is our only chance! No one invites us to parties back home!”

“A real mystery,” Georgie mumbles under her breath, hair tie between her teeth. “Also: Horny Intellectuals; title of you and Eric’s sex tape.”

“That joke was never funny and never will be.”

“Nah, it’s pretty funny.”

“Oh, sod off!” Rudyard snaps, slamming his book shut and glaring at the girls again. “Do whatever you two heathens want, I’m staying right here tonight, and that’s that.”

Georgie shrugs and finishes pinning up Antigone’s hair, then quickly searches the room for her heels. Once found, the couple heads for the door, both turning to look at Rudyard one last time. He raises a single, condescending eyebrow in response, and after Antigone slams the door behind her with extreme prejudice, the room is quiet again.

At least, for a few minutes.

Then, just as he’s getting to the really exciting bit (at least, as exciting as pre-renaissance classical literature can be), the door opens, and in comes the person Rudyard least wants to see right now. 

“Oh, hello Rudyard,” says Eric Chapman, giving Armani models everywhere an existential crisis, “I thought you’d be at the party.”

Rudyard groans internally. “Well that doesn’t seem to be the case, now doesn’t it?” he snaps back, staring at the pages of his book with a vengeance. 

“Um… no. I guess.” Chapman is blessedly at a loss for words, and Rudyard smugly counts this as a victory, until he asks, “Sorry, but have you seen my phone? I left it here when I went to go see my team.”

“No, Chapman, I have not seen your phone. It is neither my my priority, nor my interest, and I don’t see why you’re asking me about it.”

“Okay,” Chapman says, a note of annoyance beginning to creep into his voice, “well then where are Antigone and Georgie?”

“Hell if I know, either at the party or off snogging somewhere.”

Eric Chapman has gone from annoyed to displeasured. “Rudyard, do you ever pay attention to anyone except yourself?” 

Rudyard closes his book with significantly more force than last time. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Look, I just asked you a simple question, and here you are biting my head off! I can understand you being upset about the conference today, but that’s no reason to take it out on me.”

Rudyard laughs humorlessly, and slides off the bed to stand face to face with Chapman. “I don’t think you _do_ understand, seeing as you won the damn thing.”

“Is that seriously what this is about?”

“You cheated!”

“How?!” Chapman exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.

“With that stupid bloody clause that doesn’t even exist!”

“If it ‘doesn’t even exist’,” Chapman says defensively, doing a terrible impression of Rudyard, “then how could I have used it?”

Admittedly, Rudyard hasn’t gotten this far yet in his deconstruction of Eric Chapman’s master plan, but he has a few theories. “You… you snuck it into the rulebook when no one was looking!”

“All two hundred and ten copies of it?” Chapman says with a raise of his perfectly shaped eyebrows. 

“Alright, fine, you bribed the judges!” 

“Why would I need to do that?” he says with (to the everyday person who can’t see through his lies and his disgusting, stunning smile) uncharacteristic haughtiness. “My team was already winning.”

“Well,” Rudyard is really searching at this point, but refuses to admit defeat, “I don’t know how you did it, but somehow, you must have cheated!”

“Rudyard,” Chapman says with rapidly thinning patience, “I read through the entire rulebook when I got it. Maybe if you had too, instead of, I don’t know, plotting to blow up my country, you would have seen the clause as well! It isn’t my fault you’re so focused on this ridiculous and extremely one-sided feud of ours you seem to think exists, that you’re basically sabotaging yourself, and can’t see what’s right in front of you!”

“Oh, I know exactly what’s in front of me, and it’s a lying liar who lies!” Rudyard shouts back. He can feel his face flushing, but whether it’s from the anger or the extremely close proximity to Eric Chapman’s stupid face (and stupid freckles and lips and gorgeous blue eyes that seem to be swallowing all the light in the room), he can’t tell. 

Chapman takes a step back, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His face is also a little pink, and it might be the least collected Rudyard has ever seen him. His eyes dart back and forth, and he sighs heavily in frustration. “Rudyard, please, for once in your ridiculous little life, could you just shut up?”

Rudyard snorts at the futility of that question (since when has he ever done anything Eric Chapman has asked?) and retorts, “Why don’t you make me?”

Something strange flickers in Chapman’s eyes, and he bites out with almost a growl in his voice, “Why don’t I?”

Then, without any kind of warning, Eric Chapman is kissing him.

Er.

Well.

Rudyard is not prepared for this at all. 

Eric Chapman is kissing him hard. Like, _really_ hard. His hands are fisted in Rudyard’s shirt, and their bodies are pressed together so that Rudyard can feel every inch of him. Chapman’s mouth is hot and wet on his, and they’re both warm from exertion, and it takes Rudyard about three seconds to go through all these facts before he’s eagerly kissing back.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s going to let Chapman have the upper hand. 

His fingers tangle in the base of Chapman’s hair, and with that permission, Chapman pushes him backwards a few feet until his back is against the wall. And yes, alright, it’s sexy as hell, but that just isn’t fair, so Rudyard nips at his bottom lip a little bit just to show him who’s boss. The whole thing is hot and messy and filled with a lot of frustration that, up until very recently, had been a bit of a problem for both of them.

At one point, Chapman rolls his hips against Rudyard, who makes probably the most embarrassingly turned on noise known to man, and then has the absolute fucking nerve to _pick him up and toss him down on the bed_. Naturally, Rudyard pulls him down with him, because fuck you Eric Chapman, that's why, although maybe that statement is a bit more literal than he originally thought. And while, yes, Chapman does remain on top for the remainder of the night, Rudyard has deemed it fitting to swallow his pride for the sake of Chapman’s, and not because that too is sexy as hell.

Dear god he's sounding like his sister.


End file.
